Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (15 page)

That is where I was, see,
in my own understanding of Tom Sloane and his plight, but with one
important additional factor: I knew that what I had done was right
and good, though some may recoil at my intervention in that
situation, because I was given the understanding at the moment
that I had
discharged an important
obligation
, and that the obligation was
part and parcel to the mission, whatever that was, in which I was
presently engaged.

All of which is a lengthy
way of saying that Tom Sloane is no mere footnote to this story; he
too
is
the story
as much as any other character, and somewhere I knew that, as I
came down off Windmere Hill. I just did not understand all that I
knew, and I was determined all the more to do so.

But I am going to give you
another leg up on me at this point in the story, because I want you
to follow it better than I was while I was experiencing it. That
means that I have to talk a bit about metaphysics, particularly
that branch originating in Neoplatonism—and more particularly, the
distinctions elaborated by Plotinus (
a.d.
205-270).

As you probably already
know, metaphysics is an attempt to elaborate mystery—the ultimate
mystery: who and where am I?—who and where is God?—what is the
significance of existence?—or, what is it all about? For some it is
a meaningless exercise that only confounds the thinking mind and
clouds reason and experience. Those people will usually turn to
science, economics, history, humanistic philosophy, and/or simple
religious faith as a better alternative to frame their existence
and sensing of self. Others—more and more others in this modem
age—cannot find a satisfactory framework for their own existence
in the purely earthbound dimensions of experience, so go seeking
the great mystery itself: the basis of all experience; the great
Truth behind it all; the origin, the meaning, and the relationships
of existence itself. Call it metaphysics—and you may include in
there all the parlor games and light diversions that frequently
take the name—just do not limit the field by dismissing metaphysics
as astrology or spiritualism or sorcery, etc.

Metaphysics is indeed the
mother of all religion, all philosophy, all science, all organized
pursuits of the human mind. A religion is a
metaphysical system
as is any
particular philosophy and science, since metaphysics provides the
framework through which we approach understanding. The major
distinction between a metaphysical system and metaphysics itself
is that the system has ceased the exploration of reality itself—has
come to terms with some concept of what reality is—and now seeks to
frame experience within that system.

Neoplatonism is such a
system. It is an evolutionary form of various movements all
inspired by the
Dialogues of Plato
(428-347
b.c.),
and it is important to modern man if for no other
reason than that this framework of reality has largely shaped
Western man's approach to logical thought. It is difficult to
generalize Neoplatonism since there are so many diverging branches,
but all of these do embrace a certain consensus of thought built up
of these basic elements: a) there are many spheres of being,
arranged in a hierarchy of descending order, the last and lowest
of these comprising the space-time universe of human sense
perception; b) each separate sphere is a product of its next
superior sphere, deriving its existence through some process
outside of time and space; c) each "derived" being (you and me,
angels, spirits, eels and microbes) becomes established in its own
reality by reflecting back through contemplative desire toward its
superior, such reflection being implicit (or inherent) in the
original, outgoing creative impulse received from its superior, so
that the entire production may be characterized as a double
movement of outgoing and return (action/reaction); d) each sphere
is a grosser image or expression of the sphere above it; e)
degrees of being (individual spheres) are also degrees of unity;
that is, the higher the sphere of being, the greater the degree of
unity; conversely, the lower the sphere, the greater the
multiplicity or separateness of individual beings. The
ramifications here, at the lowest possible level, are toward the
subatomic individualization of matter in space-time; whereas, f)
the supreme sphere, and through it all of existence in any sense,
is derived from the ultimate principle itself (science's First
Cause or "singularity"), which utterly transcends any
conceptualized or conceivable reality to the point that the
ultimate principle is said to be "beyond being," without limitation
of any kind. Since it has no limitation and cannot be subdivided by
attributes or qualifications of any nature, it also really cannot
be named but should be called "the One" as an indication of its
total simplicity.

Got that? Total simplicity. We descend into
the chaos of total individuation and infinite complexity, ascend
toward and into the ultimate simplicity where all is one and one is
all.

This utter simplicity is the source of all
perfections as well as the ultimate goal of return from chaos. The
out- and-back double movement constituting the hierarchy of derived
reality emanates from the One and returns to the One.

Got it? If the supreme
simplicity cannot be determined by reference to any specific traits
or attributes, then man's knowledge of it cannot be anything like
any other kind of knowledge, since it is not an object (a thing)
and nothing known to man can be applied to it; therefore the One
can be known only if and when, by its own direct action, it
embraces the mind of man in some mystical union with itself, an
event which cannot be imagined or described.

Much of Christian theology is derived from
this Neo- platonic model of existence. Plotinus himself was not a
Christian, but he was taught by Ammonius, who also taught the
Christian Origen who became one of the most respected and
influential of all early Christian thinkers.

Plotinus saw the goodness and beauty of the
material universe as the best possible work of Soul, but man was
also a work of Soul—and, as Soul, man in his essence could never be
limited or harmed by worldly imperfection because, as souls within
bodies, men can exist on any level of the soul's experience and
activity.

Did you catch that
souls within bodies
?
Souls always have bodies, whatever the sphere or plane, but each
ascending sphere requires and provides an appropriately finer body
of expression.

We can also move back and forth along the
ladder, falling and rising among the various spheres of being,
ascending in spirit to the level of Universal Soul or falling with
a crash into the gross vicissitudes of space-time experience
encased in flesh.

Plotinus also believed that the soul could
travel from the fleshy sphere to commune in the higher spheres
without disturbing or interrupting the earthly duties of that
soul.

Which brings us, I guess, back to our
story.

Who or what was Valentinius de Medici, and
what the hell was going on here? Was he fallen angel or pilgrim
soul, black magician or enlightened mystic, demonic manifestation
or time traveler, con man or confused ghost?

And what was the secret of Pointe House? Who
were those people there? What were they trying or hoping to
achieve, or were they just hanging out for lack of anything better
to do with their time? Or was time relative to whatever it was
they were up to?

Was Pointe House a way station between
spheres, a warp in space, a wrinkle in time—or was it just a
sentimental anachronism like the town itself, fighting for the
truth about itself?

What was this weird
arrangement with the Sloanes, and how or why had it engulfed them?
Why was Gibson involved to the point of extinction, and what was
behind the mask of horror that seized them all?

And why, God tell me why, was a beautiful
young artist with a master's touch caught up in all this, to the
point of a possible split personality and an apparent morbid
compulsion to paint an array of ghosts with a common soul. And who
after all did she intend to show it to, on a deadline that
coincided with that other crisis—or were both the same?

My life is never simple—and I do love a
mystery—but I had the definite feeling that the thing was out of
hand this time.

I frankly did not know where the hell to go
next.

So you go figure it for
me, please. Haul out your own metaphysical system as a guide, or
use the one I outlined above, and try to make some sense of
it.

Just remember that the
routine to simplicity is an ascending one and that you and I in
present form occupy the sphere of chaos.

So have a go at it,
please, and lend me a hand with this mess.

Meanwhile I'm on my way to have another go
at the beautiful young painter/sculptress.

Want to know why she does not know what she
ought to know. Also want to know why she does what she's doing, and
who she's painting/sculpting for.

Ready? Let's go.

Chapter Twenty: Mission Control

I hit the Laguna cliffs again at midafternoon
and tried to get a fix on the spot outside the estate where Jim
Sloane's abandoned car had been found by the police. Pointe House
is situated outside the city limits in a county area. The parking
on Pacific Coast Highway is very spotty along that stretch, just a
broad shoulder here and there. The entry onto the point occupied
one of those broad areas extending a hundred feet or so to either
side of the drive, all of which was posted against parking. I took
mental note of all that and went on through to the point without
pause.

Francesca was in her
studio, very expertly applying framing to a large seascape. She
looked up with a troubled frown as I entered but quickly returned
her attention to the job at hand without greeting me or otherwise
acknowledging my presence. So I browsed around for a minute or
two, toured the studio looking for the stuff I'd seen in there the
night before. It was not there; none of it was there.

So I went to the framing table and asked the
petulant lady, "Already crated up your show?"

She replied, "Ha ha, very funny. Not sure
I'm going to have a show, at this rate. Please get out of here and
leave me alone."

So I took a leap, and told her:
"Francesca...you had a show last night. Right here. There were more
than forty paintings, and an equal number of sculptures. It was
devastating stuff—I'm talking master works, absolutely stunning
portraits such as I have never seen before by any painter."

She put down her tools,
folded her arms across her chest, fixed me with a penetrating gaze
and asked in a tight little voice, "What are you trying to do to
me? You wander in here off the street and just take over the place,
follow me around like a puppy dog and stand in my face while I'm
trying to work; then you tell outrageous lies to the police and
make me look like some kind of jerk—now you're telling
me..."

I had to know the truth, so I told her, "You
forgot to mention that I also made love to you on the beach."

We had a stare-down over that one. Lasted
for, I guess, twenty seconds or so. She had to have seen the truth
in my eyes. Finally she dropped the defiant gaze and dropped her
shoulders and said very softly, "Damn it."

I asked, "Is it becoming more and more
common, these lapses of memory?"

The voice was dulled as she replied, "I
don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do. You suffer memory gaps. You
find your

self here, and don't know how you got here;
there, and don't recall going there or why. You don't remember
screwing my brains out on the beach yesterday afternoon, don't
remember dinner and partying last night, don't remember showing me
your portrait gallery at midnight, don't remember—"

"Okay, okay, stop it!"

I said, "Something of a nightmare, isn't
it."

That broke her. She turned away from me with
tears in the eyes and marched to the window; stood there arms
folded and staring broodingly out to sea. I went over and hugged
her from behind, held onto her, told her, "That's why I'm here,
Francesca. Valentinius asked me to come and help you. I want to do
that. But you—"

"How could he know?" she asked in the small
voice. "I've seen him only twice, and that was...some time
ago."

I said, "Yes, but he sees you. Every
day."

She shivered in my light embrace, turned her
face into my shoulder, whispered, "Who is he?"

I whispered back, "I think he may be your
guardian angel."

That lovely head dropped and the shoulders
began to quiver. I thought at first that she was crying. But she
was laughing. Laughing.

I said, "Is that so funny?"

Francesca extricated herself from my grasp
and turned about to look at me as she replied, "I thought I was the
crazy one. But—sorry, I have to say this—if one of us is crazy, it
is not me, Mr. Ford."

I reminded her, "But a man is dead, you see.
In fact,

Miss Amalie, since I arrived here yesterday,
three men closely connected to this house have died. If you cannot
get your act together enough to offer a coherent account of
yourself to the police, then you may be in very real trouble."

She gave me a sober inspection then smiled
and replied, "Then let my guardian angel handle it."